


The Moments Between

by A41



Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Hurt Malcolm Bright, Hurt/Comfort, Near Death Experiences, One Shot, Rescue Missions, Strangulation, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:01:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28459437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/A41/pseuds/A41
Summary: It only takes a moment for everything to go wrong, and when Gil’s stuck halfway across the city, only a moment may be a moment too late.
Relationships: Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright
Comments: 26
Kudos: 95





	The Moments Between

The moments work like this:

Walking back home with an armful of bags filled with boxes because the Girl Scouts were out in mass, and the leaders brief them on preforming effective puppy eyes. Banging one boot, then the other against the stoop before jogging up the stairs. Keys jingling against a gloved palm on their way to the lock, then the clank of them falling because the door’s standing ajar. Inside could be blood or another man or nothing but empty space in a once-shared closet; a home left lifeless and quiet.

Barely hearing the knock over the lively noise of the girls playing with the pack of balloons they found buried in a drawer. A swift wipe of sudsy hands before calling the girls to set the table; the roast is almost done. The quick walk down the hall to the entranceway and, “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but I have some news concerning your son.”

Waiting in a hardback plastic chair surrounded by the scent of antiseptic, back stiff and heart stiffer. The seconds when the door swings and a familiar doctor pulls a nurse aside. She comes closer, and her quiet professional face screams out the answer.

Out on a routine call, waiting on some tea. Smiling down at the kid, until he stares back and says, “You should take out your gun.”

The moments live balanced between the normal and the tragic. When life goes on, ignorant of the fact that it’s already too late, nothing is the same, or ever will be the same again.

Gil didn’t like giving them a name.

Jackie liked to call them _in-between moments_ , but she always enjoyed coming up with titles, named every damn plant on their windowsill. Gil thought some things were too big to be contained by words, but then again, he’s a cop and she was a novelist, he’d never understand words quite like her. He understood the moments, though, been a part of enough of them with his job to know that another one is always coming. He’s ready for it, or well, ready for the blindsided smack of it, and yet—

And yet—

Gil never realized how terrifying it would be, the moment Malcolm finally calls for backup.

\--- --- --- --- ---

They’ve been running a case, a strangler targeting that particular breed of rich, young, and stupid. There’s nothing special about the perp, nothing to tell Gil that _this_ was the one that he should have been watching for.

“ _He likes the intimacy of the strangling_ ,” Bright had said, red-eyed and pale from too little sleep, because his brain can’t compartmentalize; it can barely stay together most days. “ _It makes him feel powerful, something he’s not used to. The victim pool is deliberate, rich and young; they rub everything he can’t have in his face. No one has seen him, so either he’s good; unlikely considering how close together the victims have been; or he’s someone people don’t notice. Look for someone in a uniform, server, bus driver, maid; people don’t notice the staff.”_

The team is with him and not with Bright, because Bright had been dragging for days, falling asleep at the table. Over Bright’s protests and insistence and _let me see if I can find something else, Gil come on—_ Gil sent him home. Dani and JT stayed, but even their sharp eyes and sharper minds are useless when confronted by the same information they had seven hours ago. They stare up at the board and down at the files and re-pin and re-work and try not to dwell on how many stupid kids are walking home alone tonight.

Gil’s phone buzzes at the end of the conference table and he ignores it, there’s no one at home waiting for him to pick up. JT checks it anyway, he’s been insistent on it since the baby, Gil can’t blame him.

“It’s Bright.” JT frowns and slides the phone down the table.

“Isn’t he supposed to be home?” Dani asks, and something about her question has Gil’s heart dropping, the swift _hold-on-grab-tight_ reflex of a missed step. Malcolm should be home. Malcolm should be safe. So, there’s no reason for the creeping, piercing crawl of paranoia through Gil’s chest. He ignores the memory of his former mentor ‘ _Ya got good instincts, kid. Stick with ‘em,’_ and answers the phone.

There’s a gentle breath, then, “Gil?” Bright’s whispering comes faintly across the line.

“Bright, what’s going on?” Gil asks, then giving into his gut, “Where are you?”

“I don’t have long… The killer, it’s Roland he’s—” There’s the sound of a thud before Bright lets out a curse.

“Malcolm.” Gil’s voice is sharp, and he can feel Dani and JT’s eyes on him. “Find everything we have on Roland Cross.” He tells them.

“The bartender for that rave?” JT asks, but he and Dani are already sorting through their files so Gil feels no pressure to answer him.

“Malcolm. Talk to me.” Gil’s standing now. He can’t sit, not until—

“Um… so you know how you said to call for backup?” Malcolm says and Gil wishes he could shake him, mostly because that would mean the kid would be here and safe, “I could really use some.”

“Where are you?” He asks again and JT’s getting up now, and Dani’s printing off papers and grabbing her coat.

“I’m at the first scene, the warehouse where the rave was? I went back to—Shit!” He cuts off and Gil’s breathing cuts off with him. “Gil,” He says, “I don’t think I’m alone.” And it sounds like _Gil, baby I got my tests back today and—_

“Is it Roland?”

“Yes.” At the whisper, Gil signals the team to follow him, puts the phone on speaker and heads out the door. Dani passes him a paper. Roland’s face glares up at him. “Okay. Alright. Talk me through it, kid.”

“I’m hiding on the upper floor.” Malcolm breathes. “There’s a balcony, I can see—He just came in the front. Downstairs. He must have seen my flashlight.”

Gil curses under his breath and looks over what info they have. Roland Cross, bartender, rap sheet of minor offences, a hulking monster of a man. JT would have a hard time going hand to hand against this guy. Bright’s tough and he’s trained, but that doesn’t mean much when Cross has got 150 pounds on him. “Anyone else with you? What’s he doing, Kid?”

“No one else. He’s—He’s looking around.”

“Okay, stay down, stay quiet; we’re on our way.” It’s not a lie. They’re in the car now, and for once Gil doesn’t mind giving up his keys to JT. Dani mobilized a team, efficient, she always is, and hops in the back. JT floors it. With any luck, they’ll get there before Roland even thinks to look up.

“Gil,” Gil has to strain to hear the murmur, “He’s headed toward the stairs.” _Damn._

“Okay. You’re okay.” Gil can feel his voice getting tight, jagged. JT meets his eyes in the mirror, all solid assurance and gives a nod. Gil steadies himself. _Not the time._ “Okay kid, stay on the line, stay down, stay quiet. We are coming to get you.” There’s no answer, which Gil reminds himself is a good thing. Malcolm’s listening, for once.

“He’s turning around, going back by the door.” Malcolm says; Gil wants to breathe a sigh of relief, but he knows better than to tempt the fates with Malcolm’s magnetic capacity for bad luck. “That doesn’t make sense, why would he—” There’s a sharp inhale and Gil has the free-falling certainty that _this_ is one of those moments; whatever Malcolm says next is going to change everything. _You should take out your gun._ “Someone else is coming.”

“Malcolm, stay where you are.” It’s Dani, leaning over to demand through the speaker phone because she doesn’t know. “We are on our way.” She doesn’t know Bright like Gil does, doesn’t know the lengths Malcolm will go to protect someone else, to save a stranger. _My father. He’s going to kill you._

“He’s going to move in on them.” Malcolm says. “I have to—”

“Wait, Malcolm, no. Do not engage. Do you hear me? Stay down.” JT bites out from the driver’s seat.

“I’m going to see if I can distract him.” Malcolm’s breathing heavy, adrenaline rising. Dani’s still trying to talk him down and JT’s pushing the car to its limit, but Gil’s busy listening to Malcolm’s breaths. The way he’s forcing them down into some kind of rhythm, the way he does after a nightmare. The intake of air as the rhythm falters, a hitching beat, _you should take out your gun,_ before…

“’M sorry, Gil.”

There’s a muffled twaump of the phone being put in a pocket, then Bright’s voice rings out. “Roland Cross? I have some questions for you.”

“Is he crazy?” The thud as JT smacks the steering wheel permeates the sudden silence of the car, but Gil doesn’t chide him for it.

“What the hell, Gil?” Dani’s looking at him like he messed up; like there was any way for him to stop Bright once the kid gets an idea in his head.

“Drive.” Gil bites out, and JT exhales hard through his nose.

The phone’s still connected, still counting out every second of the call. Over the rush of traffic, cut through by the wail of sirens, they can hear the faint noises of Bright speaking. Gil frowns, leans close; they’re losing much of Cross’s side of the conversation. Until a scuffling noise, a thump, then, “You think you’re better than me with your fancy clothes and fancy degree?” The man is shouting, but it doesn’t cover the weighted thud followed by a muffled cough groan sound that sets every part of Gil on alert. “You can’t understand me. You don’t know what it’s like.” Cross’s voice is getting louder, and the scuffling noises don’t stop.

“We’re still a minute out.” JT keeps his eyes on the road but he’s tight jawed and tighter voiced. Gil feels Dani’s hand on his arm, and he loosens his white knuckled grip on the phone; he’d never forgive himself if he’d accidently hung up.

“You’re right, I don’t.” They all jerk at Bright’s voice. It sounds weird and choked up, restricted. Dani mouths a curse. “I’ve been given every opportunity I could ever want.” A grunt, not from Bright, not this time, and Malcolm’s voice comes back stronger. “But even if I was homeless on the street, it wouldn’t matter. This isn’t some great class statement, not anymore. You got a taste for it, for the power. For their fear.” 

“Shut up!” Cross cuts him off and then the sounds start up again, horrid rasping sounds, in earnest this time. Coughing, gasping, thuds getting weaker before they stop entirely. Cross’s cut off his airflow, Gil realizes in a distant way. It feels unreal, foggy ( _a coping mechanism, Bright says_ ) and that’s the only thing keeping Gil from losing his mind at hearing the breath choked out of _his kid._

“Almost there, Boss.” Dani says. Gil doesn’t look at her, just keeps his focuses on breathing in and out, steady and clear, as if he could breathe _for_ the kid; he lets himself pray like he hasn’t in years, pray that they’re not too late.

They arrive at the scene with a screech of tires and Gil’s running down the alley to the doorway, yawning open and dark. Dani’s at his left, JT to his right, their weapons out, covering him; but Gil’s not sure he’d check his pace even if he were alone and wide open.

The warehouse is dim; the lights flashing from the cruisers and the NYPD flashlights only doing so much to light the cavernous space. But Gil can see a dark shadow of a figure straddling a body—no Bright, that’s _Malcolm_ unmoving on the floor.

“NYPD, let him go.” Dani barks out, like she’s actually giving the man an option; as if Gil’s not going to rip him off of Malcolm in the next 10 seconds regardless of what Cross does.

The man decides to run. Dani heads up uniform to give chase, but Gil hardly notices. He drops to his knees beside the body on the floor—beside Malcolm. Gil ignores his unnatural stillness to put a hand to where that skinny neck is already going dark with bruises and—there, under his fingertips, there’s a thready pulse. Gil reaches out to cup the kid’s head at the nape and lifts him up. The room’s far too dark for him to rely on sight alone, so he leans in close, close enough to listen.

The kid’s not breathing.

JT hits the ground beside him. “I got him. I got him,” he says and starts in on rescue breathing. Gil gives him the space to work; he’s seen JT resuscitate victim’s before, he _knows_ he’s good for it; but that doesn’t stop the nonsensical urge to shove him away and cradle Malcolm to his chest until the kid’s _back._

He clutches at Malcolm’s limp hand instead. “Come on, come on, kid,” he finds himself saying, over and over again, under his breath, a prayer just for the three of them. The kid’s head is lolling, face pale and slack as if in sleep. But the kid’s never still when he sleeps, always twitching and curling up, running away from his head even while stuck inside it.

This is different. This is unconsciousness. This is Jackie, pale in bed, the last the steady _beep beep beep_ feeding into one long screaming death cry and –

Malcolm jerks up with a cough, and Gil feels like his lungs might collapse under the relief of it.

“Gil?” Malcolm rasps, or tries to, before he’s coughing and choking all over again.

“I got ya, kid.” Gil says. Something obviously didn’t go through because Malcolm’s squirming around and trying to sit up like he wasn’t half a step from dead only a moment ago.

“Just stay down, bro.” JT’s sat back on his heels and sweat is dripping from his forehead, but the hand he hasn’t taken off Malcolm’s shoulder is more than a little shaky.

Malcolm frowns at him, brow furrowing like he doesn’t understand. His eyes travel a slip shaking route to meet Gil’s for a blazing second before moving on to land somewhere near the left of his nose. “What ‘appened?” 

“Just rest for me, alright? Keep breathing.” Gil says and pulls Malcolm’s hand up to rub at his knuckles. He ignores JT’s explanation of ‘you’re a reckless little shit, that’s what’.

Malcolm squints, still not quite focusing on Gil’s face. “It’s cold.” His voice sounds awful, all ripped up glass and crushed down velvet.

Gil finds himself laughing at Malcolm’s disgruntled face, at JT’s incredulity, at the ridiculousness of three men sitting on the dirty floor of a warehouse in the middle of the night.

Malcolm looks at JT. “What’s funny?” then, “JT? When d’you get here?” then, finally, “It’s still cold.”

JT huffs at him, but he unzips his jacket and spreads it across Malcolm’s chest. Gil doesn’t have one, didn’t even think to grab it after the phone rang.

He runs a hand over the kid’s hair. “Stay still, all right. We have an ambulance coming.” Gil presses him back when he tries to get up and presses him quiet when he remembers Cross and tries to ask about the case. He holds him down and _there_ and does everything he can to make sure the kid stays present and alive and breathing.

\--- --- --- --- ---

Gil never liked hospitals; the smell and the sounds, the sheer raw emotion driven straight into the heartbeat of the place. He likes ‘em even less now, after Jackie.

But when it comes down to it, he’d rather spend every day walking through those over-scented, unscented halls than a single day out in the fresh dampness of a cemetery.

Jessica arrived in a blaze of glory; sweeping through the doors, fierce and pale and perfectly attired. But Gil could see the way her lips trembled, and her hands shook, so he didn’t fight her when she read him the riot act. She turned to do the same to her son; but Malcolm looked so pathetic in the hospital bed, all pale and fragile puppy dog look, that she instead burst into tears. So, Malcolm had to go through a battery of tests while Gil held a sobbing Jessica and fielded answers to the medical staff about medications and sedatives, and hushed Malcolm every time the kid decided his busted-up throat was completely fine for talking.

It wasn’t.

The doctor said it would pass, that Malcolm should rest his voice as much as possible, and Gil will be damned if city boy starts spurning the doctor’s orders on his watch. He’s taken to poking Malcolm in one of his many ticklish spots whenever the kid goes to open his mouth. It’s _highly effective_.

Malcolm wants to go home; Gil can tell without the kid having to say anything. But he _needs_ to be in for observation; he was unconscious; he wasn’t breathing, disoriented, oxygen cut off to his precious messed up brain _._ Gil’s not sure how to impress this absolute need for Malcolm to stay here, at least overnight, without the kid fighting him off with all the fire that wasn’t strangled out of him. He looks over at him, and Malcolm must still be running his profiles, because he takes one glance at Gil and gears right up. His back goes straight, chest puffs up, hands twist tight in the sheets over his lap, and his face closes down with the knowledge that’s he’s self-reliant, (he’s had to be, over and over again) and the determination to stay that way.

It’s Jessica who ends up solving the problem, the same way she does anything truly important; quiet and genuine and reckless in her caring. She grabs her son’s hand, says, ‘Please, love, for me,’ and Malcolm just… folds, all that belligerent, independent air sliding right out of him.

They get him settled in a private room, all dim lights and muted noise. There are two chairs by the bedside; Jessica sets herself in one, and Gil takes the other, the one that puts him between the bed and the door.

A knock sounds and the door creaks open to let his detectives file in. Dani’s got a long bruise up the side of her face and JT’s still missing his jacket, but they look good; none of the suppressed panic from earlier, more grounded.

“Nice digs,” JT says, with a glance around, “How long you in for?”

Gil takes one look at Malcolm and decides on a preemptive strike. “He’s not supposed to be talking.”

Dani smirks at Malcolm’s affronted expression; at his mouth left dangling open like an idiot who can’t obey doctor’s orders. “You sure he got the memo, Boss?”

“I—” Malcolm starts, and Gil aims for the spot right under his ribs. Malcolm twitches but manages to keep himself still and his reaction mostly discreet. Gil gets a dirty look for it, but with Malcolm so busy trying to glare him into submission, he forgets he was trying to talk. Gil takes the win.

When Malcolm turns back to JT and Dani, his expression shifts from narrow eyed scowling into something much worse: calculated contemplation. Gil rolls his eyes and asks the question before it burns its way out of Malcolm’s bruised throat.

“Cross?”

“We caught up with him right outside the warehouse.” Dani says, “He tripped over some boards, twisted his ankle. It wasn’t hard to bring him in.” Her eyes are cold, there will be no pity for Roland Cross from her.

“Really, Arroyo? Discussing crime while my son’s convalescing?” Jessica shoots a look to where Malcolm is hanging on their every word. “Or supposed to be.”

“Sorry, Ma’am.” Even Jessica softens at JT’s charm, “We brought him in. Then we let uniform take over. He should be getting processed now.” He finishes. That’s good, that’s—Malcolm is staring at the team wide eyed. Gil sighs.

“Yes, Bright, they came right here to check on you.” There’s a twitch to the kid’s eyebrow, a slight shift in his jaw, which means— “No, it wasn’t guilt or obligation.”

“Is Gil holding both sides of this conversation?” JT asks Dani in an undertone. Gil ignores them, because Malcolm’s face has settled into his ‘I figured something out and now I’m disappointed, but not surprised’ expression.

“They didn’t drag themselves here to give a report. They could’ve left that on my desk for the morning.” Gil smiles a bit, gently, because Malcolm still falls straight to vulnerable at any sign of someone giving a crap about him, despite Gil’s best efforts. “Honestly, kid, you’re being ridiculous.”

“Is that a change from the usual?” Dani’s got a hand on the back of Gil’s chair and the same tilt to her eyebrow that pops up when she teases JT about the frankly absurd number of onesies he buys.

Malcolm goes to talk, _again,_ so Gil pulls out the big guns and jabs him right above the hipbone. This time, Malcolm can’t hide the way he jerks, hard, and squirms away with a gasp, hands already poised to protect against Gil’s next move. JT raises an eyebrow, slow and incredulous, but Dani… Dani’s got the narrow-eyed smirk that means she’s cataloguing the information. Malcolm puts his hands down, and uncurls from his defensive huddle, but he can’t do anything about the way his face flushes bright red.

Gil takes pity. “Doctor said she wants him here overnight, longer if he wouldn’t start climbing the walls.”

Malcolm goes to defend himself, eyes up Gil’s hands, and lets his mouth fall shut with a pout Gil hasn’t seen since the kid was in high school. He thumps a hand off his pillow instead, all petulant frustration, but with an edge of genuine panic starting to creep in.

“It’s alright, kid.” Gil reaches a hand out to settle on Malcolm’s head. “We can tell what you’re saying just fine.” He ruffles the kid’s hair and Malcolm makes a show of shaking him off. He’s lost the wild tinge to his expression, so Gil lets his hand fall back and settles himself into the stiff plastic chair.

Gil catches Jessica’s eyes and nods at the silent thankfulness he finds there. He soaks in the sounds of the team teasing Bright while he can’t snip back at them; Malcolm’s increasingly ridiculous pouting, his ever more extravagant gestures, the surprised bark of laughter when Dani lets out something particularly brutal (this garners a lecture from Jessica…to all _three_ of them). Gil keeps an eye on them, his little team, feeling protective and a bit foolish, but the shy smile he gets when Malcolm catches him at it sets his heart at ease. He sits back, and lets himself rest in the peace between the moments.

**Author's Note:**

> Thoughts and opinions always welcome!


End file.
